As the hours sped on, he said to her a few low spoken words, whereupon she laid her head upon his shoulder, as if that were its natural resting-place, while he threw his arm around her, bidding her “sleep if she could.” Of course she was his wife, I said, and with much of bitterness at my heart, I turned away and watched the slowly-moving lights of the canal-boats, discernible on the opposite side of the Mohawk, along whose banks we were passing. Whether Ada liked her pillow or not, she clung to it pertinaciously until it seemed to me that her neck must snap asunder, while with a martyr’s patience he supported her, dozing occasionally himself, and bending his head so low that his glossy black hair occasionally touched the white brow of the sleeping girl. “Bride and groom,” I heard a rough-looking man mutter, as he passed them in quest of a seat, and as this confirmed my fears, I again turned towards the window, which I opened, so that the night-air might cool my burning cheeks. That night I made up my mind to be an “old maid.” Nobody would ever want me I knew, I was so homely; and with calm resignation I thought how much good I would do in the world, and how I would honor the sisterhood! Very slowly the morning light came struggling in through the dirty windows, rousing the weary passengers, who, rubbing their red-rimmed eyes, looked around to see who their companions were. It was nearly noon when we reached Canandaigua, and so carefully had I kept my face hidden from view that Ada had no suspicion whatever of my presence. At Canandaigua I took leave of my companion, and stepping out upon the platform in front of the dépôt, looked anxiously around for Herbert, but he was not there. Thinking he would soon be there, I found my way to the public parlor, which for few moments I occupied alone. I had just removed my dusty bonnet, and was brushing my tangled hair, when the door opened, and I stood face to face with Ada Montrose, who started back, and for a moment evidently debated the propriety of recognizing me. Thinking she might do just as she pleased, I simply nodded, as I would to any stranger, and went on with my toilet, while throwing herself upon the sofa, she exclaimed, “Dear me, how tired I am! Do you live here?” “Of course not,” I answered; “I am on my way to visit my sister Anna, whom you perhaps remember.” She turned very red, and replied by asking if I were in the train which had just passed. “Yes,” I answered; “I occupied the seat directly behind you and—your _husband_—is it not?” I felt that I must know the truth, and hence the rather impertinent question, which, however, did not seem to displease her in the least. Affecting to be a little embarrassed, she said, “Not my husband—yet. He came on to Boston to accompany me home, and wishing to see a friend of his, who lives here, we have stopped over one train.”